


Fate Stole Our Options but Not Our Choices

by mthrfkrgdhrwego (universalchampbalor)



Category: Professional Wrestling
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Collars, DEAN IS A DEMONFUCKRE PASS IT ON, Dean in Panties, Dean is Mentally Fucked Up (tm), Demon Finn Balor | Prince Devitt, Demon Sex, Demon True Forms, Hand Jobs, Hell, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Kinda, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Non-Human Genitalia, OK TIME TO DO THIS AGAIN, Oral Sex, Panties, References to Knotting, Rimming, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, War, Weddings, a very vague but still there, abuse of dean tags from another fandom :3, also, ask to tag, d e m o n d i c k s, demon customs and culture, i tried to post this at 3 am last night AND a few minutes ago and ao3 fuckin crashed, ignore if any of the chapters are formatted differently, im an idiot, mentinos of homelessness, mentioned - Freeform, this is just self indulgence, this took approx 84 years to write, unnecessary symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-06-21 19:43:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 15,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15565059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/universalchampbalor/pseuds/mthrfkrgdhrwego
Summary: Dean doesn’t know how he meets the King of Hell.All he really remembers is being at a bar with Roman, getting shitfaced, and passing out somewhere that certainly wasn’t his shitty apartment. It’s a bit of a blur, but it’s a familiar one, one that’s been etched into his bones for years.He wakes up in a place that definitely isn’t his apartment, but it’s also definitely not where he passed out. Everything smells of sulfur, of brimstone, of suffering. There’s dried blood on his knuckles, and he doesn’t remember what it’s from. It’s hot, startlingly so, and suddenly his leather jacket feels like a bad idea.





	1. Chapter 1

Dean doesn’t know how he meets the King of Hell.

All he really remembers is being at a bar with Roman, getting shitfaced, and passing out somewhere that certainly wasn’t his shitty apartment. It’s a bit of a blur, but it’s a familiar one, one that’s been etched into his bones for years.

He wakes up in a place that definitely isn’t his apartment, but it’s also  _ definitely _ not where he passed out. Everything smells of sulfur, of brimstone, of suffering. There’s dried blood on his knuckles, and he doesn’t remember what it’s from. It’s hot, startlingly so, and suddenly his leather jacket feels like a bad idea.

He wanders for a while, isn’t sure how long. The sky doesn’t change colors, the sun doesn’t move. There’s nothing that hints at the passage of time other than the droop of his eyelids and the burn in his thighs. The landscape feels like it hasn’t changed, but maybe it has. Dean’s too out of it to notice.

It feels like hours before he sees anyone.

The man is tall, even taller than Dean is. He’s got a nasty light in his dark eyes, and his brow is furrowed to match the malicious curl of his lips. The dim light of wherever they are is reflecting off his smooth head, off his teeth. Dean doesn’t  _ really _ want to approach him, not when he’s feeling this out of it, feeling like he can’t fight, but he doesn’t see another option other than wandering around for who knows how much longer.

He approaches carefully, tries to walk quietly. He doesn’t do too good of a job, because the man’s head snaps to look at him. His eyes aren’t anything other than a little dark, but there’s something off about them, something off about the edge of his teeth that feels a bit wrong.

Dean gets within two feet of the man before he collapses.


	2. Chapter 2

He spends the next few he doesn’t know how long (hours? days?) fading in and out of consciousness. He gets snippets of faces; a girl with brown hair and kind eyes, another bald man with a goatee, a pretty older man with long hair and tattoos, and a man with white threaded down the part of his hair. There’s a man with long dark hair and wild eyes that flit between black and a milked out white, and a man with a red leathery mask that visit him when he’s out.

When Dean finally wakes up, there’s a beautiful man sitting next to him.

He has choppily cut brown hair and beautiful red lips pulled into a concerned grimace. He’s pale, with bags under his eyes, and there’s a confidence that exudes from the curve of his spine. His eyes are something breathtaking in a dangerous way.

His irises are a gorgeous ocean blue that are deep enough to drown in. His sclera are stained black, the same shade as the pits of his pupils. He’s looking at Dean, but he can tell the man isn’t seeing him. He’s seeing something else.

The man reaches out, grabs Dean’s hand from where it’s sitting on his stomach. He smooths the pad of his thumb across Dean’s scraped and bloody knuckles, eyes cast low to follow the movement. Dean’s breath catches when the man brings his hand up and presses a kiss to the knuckle of his middle finger.

Dean knows it’s rude, but he can’t help but yank his hand away. He scrambles to his feet, standing on unsteady knees. He’s dizzy and confused and there’s something weird happening in his chest. The man looks at him with tired eyes, lips parted just barely in the smallest hint of a smile.

“The fuck are you doin’?” Dean spits, the words almost getting caught in his throat. His voice is gravelly, abused, like he’s been smoking cigars for days on end (or he’s been on his knees in the back alley). The man looks at him, stays seated on the bed.

After a moment, Dean still pressing himself to the wall, the man rises to his feet. His movements are graceful but inhuman. It’s like his spine is liquid, like his bones don’t exist like they should. They’re feline, languid, breathtaking. He slowly moves closer, his boots clicking against the cold floor. His hands are held in front of him, like he’s approaching a wild animal. In a way, Dean thinks, he is.

“I’m not gonna hurt you. You’re okay.” The man’s voice is soothing, blanketed in a thick accent Dean can’t place. Irish, maybe. It washes over Dean’s spine, forces every ounce of anxiety to leave his body.

Dean lets out a noise that’s barely more than a growl, something feral and angry against the back of his teeth. He feels like his hair is standing on end, feels like his blood is frozen in his veins, feels like a caged animal. His shoulders force lower, and he paces back and forth, the primal urge to  _ fight _ flooding his senses. Everything’s red, everything’s too much, and if he doesn’t split his knuckles soon, sink his teeth into someone’s flesh soon, he’s gonna lose his goddamn mind.

The man stops halfway between Dean and the bed. He’s shifting his weight from foot to foot like he’s nervous, like he’s waiting, waiting for an attack that won’t come because Dean’s too tired. He stares at Dean with his gorgeous eyes, lips parted just barely as he breathes, watches Dean flinch under his gaze.

“You’re safe here, you know. I won’t let anyone hurt you.” The man’s voice turns a little gravelly, a little too sharp. Dean sinks lower, almost in a full crouch now, hands clenched into fists so tight it hurts. The pain helps bring him back to reality.

“Where am I? Who the fuck’re you?” Dean manages. He ignores the waver in his voice, the way his voice cracks just barely. He  _ sounds _ small,  _ feels _ small, and he fucking hates it.

The man chuckles, and it rolls down Dean’s spine in the form of a shiver he feels all the way in his toes. He slowly walks closer, shoulders rolled back languidly. His body looks like it’d be pliant, malleable, but Dean has a feeling if he tried to move the man anyway, he wouldn’t budge.

“My name is Bálor. This is my domain.” He says, voice back to “normal”, his arms spread as if showing off a gorgeous spread. Instead, he’s displaying a dank room in what feels like a dungeon, lit by sconces along the walls. “May I ask your name?”

Dean snorts. “You’re tellin’ me that you fucking kidnapped me and you didn’t even take the time to find out who I am?” He asks, forcing the words around his thumbnail. He’s starting to nervously chew, anxiety crowding his intestines. He can’t see outside, doesn’t know where he even is, and it’s killing him.

The man,  _ Bálor, _ smiles, and it looks predatory. He shouldn’t look intimidating, but he does. The lines of his sharp suit and neat tie, the point of his boots, the crease of his slacks...all of it exudes  _ power _ , something that makes Dean want to  _ submit _ .

He fucking hates it.

“I didn’t  _ kidnap _ you, my dear. Merely…. _ borrowed _ you, for a moment. Can I ask your name?” Bálor purrs, head tilted to the side. The movement bares the line of his throat, and Dean’s teeth ache in his skull, down to the root.

“Dean.” He doesn’t want to say it, but he does. It’s like Bálor has attached a magnet to his thoughts and is slowly extracting them, one by one by one. He can feel his emotions, thoughts sliding across the surface of his brain, and it feels  _ dirty _ . Not in a good way. “Can I ask why I’m here?”

Bálor grins. The flames from the torches on the walls catch the edge of his canines and Dean suddenly feels like  _ prey _ . He’s used to being the  _ hunter _ , not the  _ hunted _ . It’s not a feeling he likes. “Do you see the marks on your knuckles?” Bálor reaches out, hand fast like a viper strike, and grabs Dean’s left wrist. Dean tries to yank away but just ends up knocking himself off balance when Bálor doesn’t move. He falls on his ass, backed into the corner, with Bálor standing over him.

Bálor smooths his thumb over the curve of Dean’s knuckles. Dean shivers, winces at the pain of skin sliding across his still-open wounds. Bálor chases his finger with a kiss that causes Dean’s stomach to twist something fierce in his stomach. As Dean watches the movements, he looks over his knuckles.

“What about ‘em? I got these scars from fightin’.” Dean grits out. He feels like someone’s trying to wring out his intestines, and it isn’t pleasant. The cheshire sharp grin on Bálor’s face isn’t helping.

“Maybe some of them. But this,” the smaller man says, dragging a sharp nail across the crooked almost star-shaped scar below Dean’s middle finger, “This is a mark. The mark of the Chosen. And this one,” He digs his nail into the weird, misshapen band on Dean’s ring knuckle, “Is the mark of the Betrothed.”

He withdraws his hand from Dean’s arm, and Dean feels like he’s been burned, like there’s salt and ice pasted on his skin. He rubs at his skin aggressively, as if it’ll make the feeling go away. It doesn’t. Bálor shows his own hands, revealing neat palms and long, bony fingers topped with sharp  _ talons _ . He gestures with his nail to the base of his ring and middle fingers on his own left hand.

The same marks are burned into his skin.

“We’re fated.” Bálor leans down, teeth sharp in the light, eyes somehow bright and dark at the same time, like endless pools in two different ways. He doesn’t enter Dean’s personal space any more than he already was, but it feels like he did, feels like he’s plastered himself across Dean’s body. Dean can  _ feel _ his eyes on him like needles, like pinpricks. His gaze has become a very physical thing.

Before Dean has the time to freak out, to panic, to  _ process _ , the door to the room swings open. Standing in the frame is a tall, slender man. He has long, dark hair that hangs to his jaw and falls into mismatched eyes- one a crystal blue-grey and the other a clouded over white. He has neatly trimmed facial hair styled in a peculiar way. Dean can see tattoos winding down his arms and curling around his neck. He carries himself with a confidence Dean can only hope to obtain.

“Your Majesty?” The man bows his head low when he speaks. His voice holds a delicate southern accent and the familiar rasp of smoke- not cigarettes, something lighter. Bálor rolls his eyes.

“Jeff, no need for formalities. What is it?” He asks, voice soft as he stands. He places his body over Dean, like he’s protecting him, blocking him, and it makes Dean’s blood boil. He has to bite back the urge to take the man’s knee out.

“The generals would like to speak to you. They’re waiting in the throne room.” The man, Jeff, bows his head again before leaving. Bálor sighs in the back of his throat, a displeased little noise that he seems to force down. He turns and looks at Dean, still sitting on the floor, before smiling.

“Would you accompany me?” He asks, holding out the crook of his elbow. Dean bares his teeth and lets out a growl, staying seated. Bálor doesn’t budge, simply looks at him.

Dean sighs and grabs Bálor’s arm.


	3. Chapter 3

The hallway outside of the room they had been in was nicer than anything Dean had seen in his life. Gorgeous red wallpaper, hardwood flooring, elaborate art and detailed sconces. They passed door after door, with seemingly no end in sight. It felt like they walked for hours, but for all Dean knows, it could have been five minutes.  
Eventually, they slow to a stop in front of two lavish double doors. The doors are made from a heavy cherrywood, marked the deep red of the heartwood. A set of ornate wrought iron door handles sit at the perfect level for Bálor to reach and push open.  
The throne room is gorgeous.  
The floor is a checkered black and white marble that glitter under the torchlight. Hanging in the center of the vaulted cathedral ceiling is a gorgeous chandelier about the size of a small elephant. The room seems to stretch on for miles, and it makes Dean dizzy just looking at it.  
He doesn’t have time to marvel though, because Bálor quickly walks into the room and down the path towards the throne in the distance. Dean almost gets pulled off his feet, but he manages to catch himself and stride alongside Bálor.  
The throne is so breathtaking Dean almost doesn’t notice the men standing in front of it.  
The throne looks like it’s been cut from solid obsidian and left natural. It’s all jagged edges and sharp corners that look razor-thin in the light. The seat and back are a luscious red velvet that flows almost like water. Gold accents glitter here and there, and Dean has to stop himself from walking towards it.  
The men standing at the base of the throne are no less breathtaking, but in a different way. They’re both tall, taller than Dean, must be close to 7 foot tall. The one on the left, the shorter of the two, has long dark hair that falls down his back, half hidden by a wide-brimmed hat. He’s wearing a long, long leather jacket that dusts the floor, along with slacks, a black shirt, and gloves. His eyes are solidly red, and they’re pointed right at Dean.  
The man on the right, the taller one, has similar hair, long and dark and cascading across broad shoulders. His face is hidden by a red leathery mask that marks a grim visage of a glare. His mouth, set in a snarl, is exposed. He’s wearing a red and black outfit that Dean’s mind can’t comprehend. From what Dean can see, his eyes are a milked out white, and they stare into the distance as if seeing everything and nothing all at once.  
Bálor steps up and sits on the throne, legs crossed sharply. Every ounce of kindness leaves his face, his eyes turning hard as his mouth sets into an immutable line. His shoulders roll back as he adopts a no-nonsense air about him and tents his fingers. “What did you want to talk about?” The edge is back in his voice, and Dean's hair stands on end.  
The taller man speaks in a voice that's little more than a growl. “There's an attack coming. I don't know when, but I know it's going to be too big to defend against.” He grunts out the words, not turning towards Bálor. Dean thinks it’s rude, but doesn’t say anything.  
Bálor nods, a thoughtful hint to his eyes. He looks at the other man with an eyebrow raised. “What do you suggest we do, Taker?” He asks, an eyebrow cocked.  
The shorter man seems to think for a long moment before speaking. “We should get you to a safer realm. We're expendable. You aren't.” His voice is like gravel, whiskey sharp and fire hot. It has the familiar rasp of smoke stained lungs. The whole time he speaks, his eyes don't leave Dean.  
Bálor rolls his eyes. He sits forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He taps his index fingers together almost impatiently. “Where would you suggest I go? It's not like the angels will take me, or anyone else for that matter.” He slides his eyes between the two men, a sort of fury settled in his irises. “Do you really think I'd leave my kingdom at a time like this?”  
The taller man is the one who speaks. “You should go to Earth. You have to leave. If you stay here, you won't survive this attack. And then we'd be left without a ruler.” He says it matter of factly, and Dean wonders how he’s so sure. He also wonders if he's imagining the sadness creeping at the edges of his eyes.  
The rest of the conversation is a blur. Dean remembers vague military strategy that he doesn't understand. He feels weightless and heavy at the same time, feels dizzy, feels like he's trying to come down from a bad trip. Time doesn't seem to be moving correctly; either too fast or too slow or not moving at all. He feels off-kilter, like he's wearing two shoes of different types, different heights.  
He doesn’t remember how he gets there, but he ends up in a lavish room. It’s different from the room he woke up in; that room had been dark and damp and dank and genuinely unpleasant. The bed had been rock hard and lumpy and the pillow felt like paper.  
This room, though. This room was different. The walls were painted a lush purple and the floor was a thick carpet that felt like heaven beneath his toes. There was a bed in the center of the room, a four-poster canopy bed shielded by red velvet-looking curtains. A bay window protruded from the wall, revealing a view of a sprawling garden, statues, and a hedge maze that faded into the skyline.  
He was so exhausted that the only thing he could do was peel off his jacket, his jeans, his boots, strip down to his shirt and boxers and flop face first onto the bed. The bed felt wrong under his body; he was so used to flimsy mattresses, sleeping on the couch, in his car, on the ground under the overpass on Mission Row. This bed was soft, pillowy, and he sank right into it as it conformed to every curve of his body. He was out before he knew it.  
He dreamt of blue eyes, red lips, and razor teeth.


	4. Chapter 4

The first thing he does when he wakes up is punch someone in the face.  
It’s not his fault, not really. Years of sleeping on the streets and in group housing taught him reflexes he still hadn’t grown out of. One of those reflexes was an instinctive swing when he was shaken awake. Hell, he still hits Roman and Seth when they wake him up.  
Sadly, it wasn’t his very beefy friends that he clocked. It was a thin girl, probably close to a foot shorter than him. She has long brown hair pulled into an off-kilter ponytail and kind, sad brown eyes that look like obsidian in the flickering torchlight. She staggers back, one hand coming to clutch her jaw as the other stays on Dean’s shoulder.  
He’s in the middle of apologizing profusely when she tilts her head back and laughs.  
It’s a razor-edged laugh that feels like a hot knife pressed between Dean’s sixth and seventh ribs. He realizes with a jolt that her teeth are needle sharp and her neck is covered in deep scars running from her jaw to her collarbones. Her eyes are going dark around the edges, and fear strikes deep in the pit of his stomach.  
“The King asked me to get you for breakfast. There are fresh clothes in the wardrobe.” She said, voice saccharine sweet in a painful way. It washes over Dean and forces the fear in his stomach to stop.  
She leaves when he doesn’t say anything, and he sits there for a moment longer with his knuckles still aching. He shakes himself awake, scrubs a hand down his face, and stands. The room is colder than he remembers everything else being, and goosebumps race down his arms in waves. He rubs his forearms in hopes of shaking the chill from his bones, but it doesn’t work. Of course it doesn't.  
He stumbles over to the wardrobe on unsteady feet and finds a mass of fabric he doesn’t recognize. It takes him a moment before he realizes that it’s a robe, of some sort. The sleeves are long even compared to his lengthy arms, and it trails on the floor when he lifts it. It’s a gorgeous, blood red color and made of a silken velvet that feels cool under his fingertips. The hems are accented with a gold piping and Dean feels wrong just touching it.  
He pulls on his jeans and t-shirt from the day before.  
He leaves the room and sees the girl that woke him up leaning against the wall. She smiles at him and walks away, gesturing for him to follow her. She doesn’t look as intimidating when her teeth and eyes are out of view- she’s wearing a t-shirt and leggings and fucking slippers. There’s a bounce in her step that Dean can’t place, but she seems enthusiastic. She seems happy.  
She leads him through the twists and turns of the building, which Dean realizes must be a castle. He still doesn’t know where he is, and no one seems to want to give him an answer. He follows along with a hesitant obedience given that he can’t do anything else.  
They end up in a lavish dining room, where a long table sits in the center of the room. Ten chairs stretch on either side, and a chair sits at each end. Several smaller tables, which could probably fit around five people, sit at the edges of the room. A door sits on either side of the table behind where Bálor is sitting.  
He’s sitting in an almost throne-like chair at the head of the table, a goblet resting in his hand, the stem settled between his long fingers. He’s picking at the food in front of him almost disinterestedly as he sits and talks to two goateed men on either side of him.  
The girl leads Dean to the table and gestures to the chair to the right of Bálor. He sits because he can’t do anything else and folds his hands in his lap anxiously. He feels like he’s in trouble. The girl says something he can’t hear, but he does catch her addressing him as “Your Dorkiness” before walking away.  
There’s not even time to breathe before a man with bright orange hair swoops from one of the doors and sets a plate piled with food in front of Dean. He doesn’t recognize anything on it, but it smells amazing and his stomach growls angrily. He says something to Bálor in a language Dean can’t understand before leaving back through the door.  
Dean eyes the food wearily, ignoring the aggressive howling of his stomach. He looks at Bálor, who’s watching him with curious eyes. “If I eat this, does that mean I can’t leave or somethin’?” He asks, poking the slab of meat on his plate with the tines of the ornate fork sitting next to it.  
Bálor barks out a laugh that rolls down Dean’s spine like liquid and makes his toes curl in an obscene way. He grins, though it’s similar to him baring his teeth. He shakes his head almost fondly. “No, no such thing will happen. Go on, eat. You must be famished.”  
Dean doesn’t like the way he says the word.  
He tucks into the food though, pushing away thoughts of doubt over what he’s eating. It’s not the worst thing he’s put in his mouth, not by far. He suffered through years on the street foraging for food. This is an actual meal. He’s not gonna pass it up. The goblet in front of his plate is filled with a deep caramel liquid that smells of cinnamon and something else, something sharper. It tastes like spiced cider and it warms his tongue, his throat, his stomach as he drinks.  
They eat in silence. Well, Dean eats. Bálor’s plate is still mostly full, and he seems more interested in rolling his food around with his fork than he is in eating it. He’s taking long pulls from his goblet, though, his adam’s apple bobbing low in his throat as he slugs the drink. The conversation Bálor’s sharing with the two other men doesn’t seem to be serious. Instead, they’re joking, laughing, and there’s a twinkle in Bálor’s eye that makes Dean’s heart tighten in his chest. He chokes down the feeling.  
It doesn’t take long for Dean to finish his meal, and he pushes his plate away but keeps the drink close. He stares out the window for a moment, looking at the ashen landscape and red-tinged sun. “When can I go home?” His throat tightens as he speaks, and he’s reminded that Roman and Seth must be worried sick about him being missing. His heart hammers in his throat, as he’s expecting to be turned down, to have to argue or even fight his way out of this.  
Bálor sits back in his chair and rolls his head so he’s looking at Dean. His eyes, as striking as they are, seem almost sad. “I was planning on talking to you about this later. You can return home whenever you wish,” He says, and Dean’s heart squeezes up into his throat.  
“But?” He asks, his teeth tearing at the peeling skin around his thumbnail. Bálor sighs and looks at the two men standing on either side of him.  
“If you leave, this realm is doomed.” He says it matter-of-factly, like it’s indisputable, like it’s something he’s known for a long time. “We’re marked, linked, you and I.” He flexes his fingers, tracing the scars on his knuckles. “The only way to save this realm is to wed.”  
Dean’s vision turns red for a moment.  
When his vision returns to normal and his blood stops rushing in his ears, he’s standing, his chair knocked on its back behind him. His hands are shaking, balled into fists, and the bite of his nails into his palm isn’t doing anything to ground him, not really. His throat doesn’t cooperate as he tries to speak, and it takes him barely too long before he can bite out a disbelieving, “What?”  
Bálor has his head in his hands, thumbs pressed into the upper corners of his eye sockets. When he looks up a moment later, his eyes are ringed red against his black sclera, and there are tears shining along his lashes. He takes a shuddered breath before speaking.  
“I’m not expecting you to agree right away. But without you, this place is doomed. The only thing that can save this realm is an iron queen with knuckles scarred with sacred marks.” His voice is shaky, unsteady, a little wet. The man to his left, the shorter of the two, places a hand on his shoulder.  
“I’m not gonna marry some jackass who fucking kidnapped me just because of some fucking bullshit ancient prophecy or whatever. I’m not the fucking queen you’re looking for, okay? I’m just a street dog who would like to go home.” Dean explodes, voice rough in a way it hasn’t been in a long time.  
Bálor nods solemnly. “I’ll have Matt take you home. Please, just…” He looks up with red, teary eyes and sighs before grabbing Dean’s hand quickly. “Just think about it.”  
Then Dean’s back home.


	5. Chapter 5

Time passes in a blur.  
Dean can’t sleep, hasn’t been able to sleep since he got back. He hasn’t told Roman and Seth about what happened either; instead, he told them he had passed out somewhere and gone on a bender that he doesn’t remember. Still, his knuckles burn whenever he touches them and he can’t close his eyes without seeing blue eyes and red lips. He’s restless, angry, impulsive- more so than usual.  
He feels guilty. Guilty about leaving Bálor, about sacrificing an entire realm because, what? He didn't want to get married? Ruling over a realm through a war seems like a fucking dream come true. He feels like a piece of shit, like scum, like he left Bálor and everyone else high and dry with his tail tucked between his legs. It feels like everything fucked up about his head- his anxiety, depression, lack of self-preservation- is 20 times worse.  
That’s how he ends up here.  
Here, it turns out, is the roof of his apartment building with a bottle of vodka in his hand. His throat burns from the alcohol but his chest is warm and he doesn’t feel quite as fucking guilty as he did before, so it’s worth it. The stars, or the few that are visible, are starting to blur into white streaks through the deep night sky. He’s aware he’s singing but he isn’t aware what- maybe Sweet Caroline. Something to that effect. He’s swaying as he walks, some of the vodka threatening to slosh out of the wide-mouthed bottle as he wavers and stumbles along the lip of the roof.  
He isn’t aware he wants to jump until he looks into the abyss under him.  
Well, not the abyss. He stares into the darkness of the street so many fucking feet blow him and he feels an itch at the base of his skull. He tips the vodka bottle just barely, watches a small stream fall down, down, down. He brings the bottle to his lips and takes a deep swig, feeling the burn through his throat, his stomach, practically down to his fucking soul.  
He has one foot hanging off the ledge when a hand catches him by the back of his shirt.  
He turned, expecting to see Seth or Roman behind him. He has his mouth open and an insult poised on his tongue as soon as he feels the tug. He gives his vision a second to stop spinning and he finally sees who just saved his fucking life.  
It's Bálor.  
He looks like shit, too. His eyes are red and puffy as if he's been crying, and dark circles sit under his lashes. His skin is pallid, even more so than usual, and he's lost whatever semblance of color he had. His hair is rough, messy, like he hasn't bothered trying to style it in the two months since Dean's seen him  
Dean starts sobbing.  
It's not his proudest moment, but he's not a person who tends to have proud moments, so he doesn't mind. All he knows is he's drunk and wants to die and fucking Bálor just saved his life. He sags against the shorter man, fists curling in his shirt. He's so much taller than Bálor but he's never felt smaller. Bálor takes his weight easily and leads him away from the edge as he smooths a hand down Dean's back.  
They sit in relative silence for a while. Dean's still sobbing, still taking swigs of vodka because he isn't nearly drunk enough to deal with being alive, still clutching Bálor like a lifeline. Then the dam breaks.  
Dean doesn't even notice he's talking until Bálor shushes him. He can't stop the words, isn't in control of what his mouth is doing, so he keeps talking. He rambles about every insecurity that lead him to where he is, every fucked up thing from his past that's always pressed too close to the surface, airs every ounce of guilt from leaving Bálor and his realm for dead.  
Bálor just sits there, holds Dean, lets him get everything off his chest. He pries the half-full vodka bottle away from Dean and sets it aside, brushes the tears from his cheeks, whispers words of praise and encouragement into his ear, presses compliments to his scalp.  
Dean turns and kisses him.  
It's sloppy and Dean accidentally crushes his nose into Bálor’s and there's either too much teeth or not enough lips but Dean can't be bothered to care. He crawls into Bálor's lap and tangles his fingers through Bálor's hair. The change in position means their noses are no longer bashed together but Dean's nose is pressed uncomfortably hard into Bálor's cheekbone. He sinks his teeth clumsily into Bálor's lower lip and moans as if he's the one that’s getting bitten.  
His nails dig into Bálor’s scalp as he shifts his weight, almost knocking them over. He slips his tongue along Bálor’s lips and swallows the breathy sound the shorter man makes deep in his chest.  
Dean falls off of Bálor’s lap when he pulls away. His hands are still firmly sunk into Bálor’s hair, so he’s pulling the shorter man down at an awkward angle. His lips are redder than usual, saliva-slick and kiss-swollen. He’s breathing hard, his chest heaving with slightly irregular breaths.  
“You’re drunk.” He says, voice a little rough around the edges in a way that makes Dean’s heart stutter. Part of him is horribly proud that he did this, that he was the one to ruin Bálor’s composure.  
He shrugs halfheartedly. “Yeah. You’re pretty.” Dean responds, releasing a fistful of Bálor’s hair so he can drag the pad of his thumb across Bálor’s cheek. “You’re really pretty.” He breathes, sliding his thumb down Bálor’s cupid’s bow, across his lips, to his chin, dragging his lower lip down in the process. Bálor’s breathing is ragged, and he looks wrecked in the best way possible.  
“Dean,” Bálor says, voice an airy rasp that spills off his tongue and makes Dean’s toes curl in his shoes. His pupils are blown wide, and his entire eye looks solid black, all but a faint ring of blue visible. He sounds wonderful saying Dean’s name, breathing it out, like a prayer in the night sky.  
Dean kisses him again.  
Bálor lets him for a moment before he pulls away, settling his hands on Dean’s chest to hold him away. “You’re drunk. I’m not gonna do this if you’re not sober.” He whispered, his voice somehow too quiet and too loud and just right all at the same time.  
“I’ve spent enough time at the bottom of a bottle to be able to keep my wits, dude. I want this.” He mumbles, slowly sliding back into Bálor’s lap. The shorter man hesitates for a second, looking deep into Dean’s eyes, like he’s staring into Dean’s soul, into the depths of who he is. He apparently has no problem with what he sees, because he leans in, and presses his lips to Dean’s.


	6. Chapter 6

Dean returns to Bálor’s realm, but not alone.

He agrees to go with Bálor, feels a little too guilty to say no, but he insists Seth and Roman go with him. If he’s going to do this, or even think about it, he’s gonna need his brothers at his side. He always needs his brothers at his side. Bálor is happy to oblige, and makes sure that “Matt” gets Dean’s friends as well as the two of them when they go. He also learns what exactly Bálor’s realm is.

Bálor’s realm is Hell.

Apparently, Dean is fated to marry the fucking  _ King of Hell _ , a Demon thousands of eons-old eldritch creature who has the ability to raze the Earth without raising a finger, without doing more than opening his “eye”. Dean thinks that’s pretty badass.

Dean has approximately five minutes to brief Roman and Seth before they’re whisked away to  _ Hell _ by Bálor’s lieutenant. He doesn’t even know the full story, so the explanation he gives is stilted, probably more foxing than insightful. He just hopes Bálor will give them- all of them- a better explanation.

A man with fiery orange hair and yellow, pupil-less eyes and the girl that Dean remembers punching greet them when they arrive. They introduce themselves as Sami and Bayley respectively, and the needle-toothed smiles they offer scare Dean almost more than they scare Roman and Seth.

They lead the trio into the castle, cutting straight to the dining room Dean roughly remembers. When they get there, the main table is almost full. At the head of the table is Bálor, wearing a black shirt unbuttoned almost to his navel. To his right, there are three empty chairs. After those are a pretty older man with long hair that Dean vaguely remembers, and a man with white threaded down his part that looks like he could be related to the other man.

On the left of Bálor, there are the two large, goateed men, chatting jovially. Next to them are the generals, if Dean remembers correctly, the taller one staring off into the distance as the shorter one bores his eyes into the trio. There are two empty seats at the end of the row and at the foot of the table. Their escorts take those two spots and everyone watches as the three walk to the free seats. Dean sits closer to Bálor, followed by Seth and then Roman.

Bálor smiles at Dean and waves his hand, and it’s like a spell has broken. The conversations resume, and everyone starts eating. Seth and Roman look uncomfortable and out of place, just like Dean feels.

Dean grabs the goblet and takes a long pull, letting the spiced drink warm his torso. He looks at Bálor, sipping his own drink, and feels the warmth in his chest spread. “What is this?” He asks, tipping his cup barely. Bálor smiles and drains his cup before answering.

“It’s a drink called Saghdar. It’s apples, pear, a special type of alcohol from here, and a melody of spices. It’s usually a seasonal drink for autumn, but for us right now, it’s more of a ceremonial drink.” He says, gathering a drop on his finger. “It tastes better when shared.” He offers his finger, a pearl of saghdar gleaming in the torchlight. It looks more viscous when it’s out of the cup, like it can hold its own shape unlike a liquid.

Dean leans forward and closes his mouth around Bálor’s finger. He ignores the heat in his cheeks and instead focuses on the slide of the saghdar over his tongue. His brain quickly forgets about the liquid though, and he’s left focusing on the feeling of Bálor’s finger in his mouth, the texture of his fingerprint, the slight salt of his skin.

He pulls away and looks down.

Bálor explains everything else on Dean’s plate. There’s ollphéist, a large slab of meat that comes from a creature native to Hell that’s cooked for special occasions and melts on Dean’s tongue. There’s prátaí, which Dean thinks looks like mashed potatoes with spices mixed throughout. There’s anraith glasraí, a soup filled with chopped veggies and sticky rice. It’s all delicious, and Dean can see that Seth is already on his third plate.

Bálor, when it comes down to it, is a gracious host. He answers any and all questions they have about the food and drink, takes everything in stride, makes sure they’re well fed and satisfied. After dinner, when Dean, Seth, and Roman feel fit to burst, he leads them to a small, quiet sitting room.

The walls are lined with shelves filled with books and artifacts and knickknacks. There are two soft sofas facing the center of the room, with a large coffee table between them. Bálor snaps his fingers and a fire crackles to life in the fireplace. The room fills Dean with a sleepy sort of contentedness nuzzled under his breastbone.

Bálor sits on one of the couches, and the boys sit on the other. Dean feels squished, sharing a small space with two men who aren’t small in the slightest, but it feels familiar. Feels right.

They’ve barely sat before Seth starts speaking. “Alright, spill. What’s going on here?” He asks, attention all focused on Bálor. To his credit, the demon doesn’t shrink under his gaze. Instead, he smiles and leans back on the sofa, arms draped across the back, legs crossed demurely at the knee.

“My name is Bálor. I am the king of this realm. We’re under attack, by angels and spirits and who knows what. One of our generals is precognizant, and he’s been able to tell us that the realm won’t survive these attacks without help. He speaks of a ruthless queen who will rule with an iron fist and save this realm. Dean here has the sacred marks this queen is said to have.”

Bálor holds out his palm, and Dean rests his hand in it. Bálor smooths his thumb across Dean’s scarred knuckles almost lovingly. Dean tries to hide the shiver that racks down his spine, to no avail. “This mark,” Bálor says, pointing to the misshapen star below Dean’s middle finger, “Is the mark of the chosen. Whoever has it will be important to the survival of the realm.” He traces his nail over to the scar that circles Dean’s ring finger almost like a band. “This is the mark of the betrothed. Rulers of Hell and the ones they’re destined to wed share this mark.”

He drops Dean’s hand and it feels like Dean’s been stabbed. Bálor leans back again, hands folded in his lap. He’s silent for a moment before speaking. “Dean is our last chance. There’s no one who can take over after me, and if our realm is destroyed, then we are too. He’s our only hope.” His voice seems small, too damn small, and it’s physically painful to hear the meekness in his voice.

“I’m really your last hope? I’m a street dog from Cincinnati that can’t enjoy a nice thing without feeling the need to fuck it up. I can’t go three hours without itching to pick a fight. Why me?” Dean asks, brow settling low in confusion and self-deprecation. His lip is tucked between his teeth and it’s only a matter of time before he starts bleeding.

Bálor smiles and huffs out a quiet laugh. “That’s why you can save us. You know how to fight. You’re vicious when you need to be. You’re loyal almost to a fault, but you also don’t trust without reason. We’re going into a war. You are the perfect kind of person to lead us.” There’s something gleaming in Bálor’s eyes that Dean can’t place, but it makes his stomach flip.

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until Roman smooths a finger down his cheek to wipe away his tears.


	7. Chapter 7

Dean doesn’t register that he’s being wooed until Seth points it out.

Dean’s always been a dense person; he’s not good with emotions and social cues, never has been, probably never will be. He’s absolutely useless when it comes to things like this.

As soon as Seth mentions it, he panics.

He’s never done this before. With anyone. He’s done flings, done drunk hookups, done quick handjobs after fights when the adrenaline is still running high. But he’s never had a relationship. He’s never had a boyfriend, or a girlfriend, never had someone to come home to, never had someone to cuddle up with after the fact. The closest thing he’s had is Seth and Roman and that’s nowhere near a “relationship.”

He hadn’t even noticed that Bálor was trying to woo him. Apparently, he’s as dense as a fucking rock because he doesn’t realize that the kisses the shorter man flutter across his knuckles, the fond look in his dark eyes, the soft words spoken late at night, are him trying to  _ court _ Dean.

Because Dean can never leave a good thing alone, can never let something just happen, he starts to avoid Bálor. Since Seth and Roman are going back and forth between Hell and Earth, he’s getting pretty fucking lonely. Without Bálor’s company, he mostly sits in his room with a laptop, curls up in a sitting room with a sketchpad, or sneaks into the kitchen to snag a bottle of saghdar to drown his sorrows with.

It’s one such day, when he’s wandering the castle with a half-empty bottle of saghdar in his hand, that he gets stopped by one of Bálor’s second-in-commands. It’s Bayley, the girl with the deep scars on her neck and the off-kilter ponytail. She sees the bottle of saghdar that he’s chugging like he needs it (because he does need it), and gestures for him to follow her.

She takes the saghdar from him and rolls it between her hands. “Rough day?” She asks, setting the bottle between her feet as she sits on a bench a few hallways later. Her eyes are sad, sadder than usual, and there’s a hint of a soft, genuine smile on her lips.

Dean snorts, lets his head drop against the wall behind him. It hurts, a low thud of pain in the base of his skull, but it helps clear his head enough for him to speak coherently. “Rough life’s more like it.” He mumbles, trying to keep from sliding onto the floor.

“Bálor’s worried about you,” Bayley says softly, rubbing the sides of her thumbs together. She turns to make eye contact, and Dean has to force himself to keep from looking away. Anxiety rises quick in his chest, choking him at the base of his throat.

“Can’t imagine why.” He’s barely audible, and even though the words are supposed to be tinged with bitter sarcasm, he can’t quite muster it. Deep down, he doesn’t know why Bálor would be worried about him. He’s a fucking street dog, ruins everything he’s ever touched, has one foot out the door to every room he’s been in. He’s never been able to love, not really, never fucking learned how, probably can’t learn now. He doesn’t even know if he wants to.

Bayley frowns, her eyebrows turning together. “You’ve been avoiding him for the past 2 weeks. He’s worried he’s done something wrong.” She says, and her eyes get a little bit sadder. Dean feels almost guilty.

“You can tell him it’s not his fault. This is all me.” He says, resting his elbows against his knees. He drops his head in his hands, digs his fingers into the corner of his eye sockets, and tries not to fucking cry. “I’m just fucking broken.”

He doesn’t mean to say it, really. The thing is, he’s drunk and lonely and feeling fucking broken, like he isn’t whole and never will be. He doesn’t even realize he’s crying until Bayley grabs his chin and makes him look at her.

“You’re not broken.” She says, a deep intensity lifting her voice. Her eyes are hard, and there’s a twitch to her lip. Her long nails are digging into the underside of his jaw and it hurts just enough to snap him out of it.

“I’m 32 and I’ve never had a relationship. I don’t even know  _ how _ to have a fucking relationship. I’m a mess of pain and anxiety and depression and anger and no one should fucking have to deal with that.” He bites out, angrily wiping the tears from his eyes.

“I’m gonna let you in on a little secret. Bálor is in the same boat as you.” Her eyes twinkle with mirth as she smiles. “I’ve known him for longer than I can even remember. He took me in when I was young and lonely and stuck without anyone to guide me. He’s like an older brother to me. But he’s the last in line for the throne, and there’s no one who could take over after him. He’s never done anything like this, never dealt with feelings like this, and he’s so fucking worried he’s doing something wrong. You’re not the only one struggling.”

Dean stands abruptly, almost falls. He stables himself against the wall as he tries not to vomit as the room keeps spinning. He doesn’t say anything before taking off down the hallway.

He has to find Bálor.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it turns out I'm a FUCKING IDIOT and forgot to post a chapter in the MIDDLE OF THE STORY

It takes him what feels like hours to find Bálor’s quarters. It probably doesn’t take that long, but it might. All he knows is he spends most of the time stumbling through the hallways, bumping into things, and he’s pretty sure he walked in on Matt making out with someone who looked like he came straight out of the swamp.

Eventually, he manages to barge into the correct room.

Well, he assumes it’s the right room. Bálor is standing at the door to the wardrobe completely naked, so it’s not an unfair assumption to make. He looks fucking  _ gorgeous.  _ He’s not terribly tall, but it still looks like miles of gently tanned skin are spread out in front of Dean. Beauty marks dot his skin here and there, and muscles show through his thin skin. His thighs are thick and a stark vein traces up the inside, and Dean’s mouth waters. His cock is fucking  _ breathtaking. _ Dean’s knees are feeling weak, and it isn’t because of the saghdar he’d been chugging.

Bálor bends quickly and snatches the towel that’s pooled at his feet. He holds it in front of himself, and Dean realizes he’s been staring at Bálor’s crotch like a fucking pervert. He casts his eyes away, instead staring at the grain of the hardwood floor. He listens to the shuffling of Bálor getting dressed before casting his eyes up hesitantly.

Bálor is standing in front of him now, wearing a pair of loose pajama pants that looks unbelievably soft. Dean has to stop himself from reaching out and touching them. There’s a blush over Bálor’s cheeks, a red that makes his eyes pop. There’s a small smile on his lips, hesitant in a way, like he doesn’t know if he should be happy or not yet.

“Hello, Dean.” His voice is quiet, too fucking quiet, against Dean’s ears, and the taller man is almost afraid to speak. His throat sticks when he tries, so instead, he just nods and stares at Bálor’s lips because it’s all he can do. Bálor’s hand comes to grab Dean’s chin and tilts his head up so that they’re making eye contact. Bálor’s eyes have never seemed bluer than they do now. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Dean lurches forwards, presses his lips to Bálor’s like he’s drowning and the demon is the air he needs to live. Bálor gasps, low in his throat, and Dean takes the opportunity to slip his tongue past the seam of his lips. He’s so fucking drunk he’s not able to really control the kiss even if he wanted to, and it’s sloppy and uncoordinated and he’s definitely biting Bálor when he doesn’t mean to.

Bálor’s hands raise from his sides to rest along Dean’s neck. His talons dig into the tender skin at the back of Dean’s neck and it causes goosebumps to rush down Dean’s arms. The kiss is rough and desperate and Bálor tastes a little bit like saghdar, but also like something else, something darker, heavier, that makes Dean feel lightheaded.

Bálor pulls away to breathe, and Dean whines. His head falls to rest against Bálor’s forehead, and his fingertips flex against Bálor’s hips. Bálor huffs out a laugh, his breath beating against Dean’s lips, and his knees go weak all over again. “Why is it that we only kiss when you’re drunk?” Bálor asks, soothing his thumb along Dean’s pulse point.

Dean grips Bálor’s hips tighter and walks them until the back fo the demon’s knees hit the foot of the bed. He stumbles a little and falls, and Dean practically climbs into Bálor’s lap. He goes to kiss him again, but Bálor digs his thumbs in and forces Dean away. “I’m not going to kiss you until you give me an answer.” He breathes, tilting Dean’s head up to try and relieve the temptation.

Dean whines, low in his throat, and sinks his hands into Bálor’s hair. His throat still isn’t working, his jaw isn’t working, he doesn’t want to answer this question and open up that can of worms. Finally, he manages to speak after panting against Bálor’s skin for a few minutes. “Don’t make me say it.” His voice sounds wrecked, rough and airy and choked and suddenly, he sounds like he’s 20 again and it’s his first kiss with another guy.

Bálor’s eyes go soft, and emotions that Dean can’t identify, doesn’t want to identify, flood his face. Dean can feel tears pricking the back of his throat, and he doesn’t want to cry, not again, not now, doesn’t want to be vulnerable.

“Dean. Why do you only kiss me when you’re drunk?” He breathes, lips pressed to the shell of Dean’s ear. It’s a gentle gesture, so fucking soft that Dean can’t handle it.

“It’s because I’m broken and I can’t do anything right, okay? If I’m sober, I’m gonna talk myself out of it because there’s no way someone like you is gonna want someone like me. That’s not how this works. People like me don’t get fairytale endings, okay? We don’t get the guy, we don’t get the kiss, we don’t get to be happy.”

And he’s sobbing. Tears are flowing from his eyes and he can’t stop it, no matter how hard he presses his palms to his eyes or he tries to choke down his emotions. Bálor’s palms are soothing down his sides, sliding under Dean’s shirt to press into his ribcage.

The demon bends his head down, drops kisses across the dip of Dean’s throat, across his collarbones, paying attention to the barbed wire scars that mark his skin. Dean’s still sobbing, but it isn’t as bad, the soft press of Bálor’s lips to his skin calming, grounding. He makes sure the ministrations are even on each side, and he doesn’t react when Dean’s fingers tangle in his hair and press him closer.

He presses his lips above Dean’s heart, and Dean’s chest tightens. Bálor’s speaking, and it takes an embarrassingly long time for his brain to catch up enough to understand him.

“You’re not broken. You deserve the world and I will do everything to give it to you. Fuck, you’re beautiful. You’re gorgeous inside and out and I’m fucking blessed to be fated with you.” The kisses have resumed, little feather presses against the column of Dean’s neck. The tears have stopped and he’s just sitting there clutching Bálor like he’s a fucking lifeline.

Bálor keeps whispering a litany of praise against Dean’s skin. He helps Dean out of his shirt, his shoes, his pants, lays him down under the covers and curls up against him. The entire time he does so, he presses gentle, deep kisses to his neck, his pecs, focusing on the area over his heart. He’s long since stopped speaking English and has slipped into a foreign language, something guttural. Dean falls asleep with his head pillowed on Bálor’s chest and the demon’s words filling his ears.

It’s the best sleep he’s ever gotten.


	9. Chapter 9

Dean wakes up with a crick in his neck and drool on his chin.

He goes to sit up, to try and disperse the headache pounding against the base of his skull, but finds himself trapped. He panics for a moment, almost starts flailing, then remembers last night. He remembers drinking, remembers getting stopped by Bayley, remembers walking in on Bálor. He remembers spilling out his heart, spilling tears, remembers the gentle kisses and soft praise Bálor showered him with.

Bálor’s still sleeping, little soft snores leaving his parted lips. His hair is mussed, flattened on one side, and there’s an adorable twitch to his nose. Dean can’t help but smile and brush his hair from his eyes and press a kiss to his forehead.

Bálor’s arm is still wrapped tight around Dean’s torso, holding him effectively prisoner, and his phone is still in the room he’s been sleeping in for the past few weeks. He’s got nothing to do but wait until Bálor moves or wakes up, so he settles back down and stares at the ceiling and tries to count the cracks.

Dean doesn’t know how long he lies there, but it’s long enough for his arm to fall asleep and for him to get a little too hot to be comfortable. Eventually, though, Bálor stirs, presses a soft kiss to Dean’s neck. He mumbles a low, “Good morning, “ and stretches until his back curves almost outrageously.

Dean tips his head down and reaches out for a kiss. Bálor leans away with a laugh and presses another kiss to his neck. “No kisses yet. Morning breath.” He says. There’s a low rumble coming from his throat, almost like a purring. He presses an insistent kiss to Dean’s jugular, with just the right amount of teeth.

Dean shivers, his shoulders rolling low as he shifts his head to the side. Bálor seems to purr louder, his talons digging into the meat of Dean’s thigh. Dean’s sure he’s gonna have a bruise on the side of his neck when Bálor’s done, but he doesn’t care because it feels  _ amazing _ .

Eventually, Dean sits up, and Bálor comes with him. The demon groans, rakes his teeth across Dean’s pulse point. Dean laughs and lets him continue. “Don’t you have a kingdom to run?” He asks, tilting his head to the side, revealing more and more of his neck.

Bálor kisses up the length of Dean’s neck, occasionally nipping at the skin. He makes a noise deep in his throat, and Dean realizes through a haze that Bálor is speaking. “Gallows and Anderson can take care of things for the day. We can just stay here.” His voice is low, heavy with sleepiness and something headier that runs like electricity across Dean’s nerves. A hand comes up, skirts across Dean’s torso, catches on his pec.

Bálor leans down, presses a kiss to Dean’s heart. He follows it with a rough bite that has Dean’s back arching as sharp teeth threaten to break skin. He gasps, feeling something in his chest tighten. His stomach is doing flips and won’t settle, and he feels hot and cold all at once.

“If we’re gonna stay here, you need to stop doing that.” He says with an airy laugh, trying to ignore the way his voice cracks. Bálor relents after a moment, but not after pressing another bite to the knob of Dean’s collarbone. He laces their hands together and lays back down, looking up at Dean fondly. He looks like a dream, pale skin melting against red silk sheets. His eyes are bright, the blue almost crystalline, the black like an endless pit. His lips are  _ red, red, red _ , and they’re parted against sharp teeth in a smile that melts Dean’s spine.

Dean settles down next to him, curls his body around Bálor’s arms. The demon laughs and presses a kiss to Dean’s temple. Dean litters kisses along the demon’s shoulder, eyes heavy with sleepiness and an emotion he can’t name. He rests his head against Bálor’s chest and listens to his steady heartbeat.

He’s asleep before he knows it.


	10. Chapter 10

The attacks get direr as time goes on.

By the third month Dean’s in hell, Bálor’s invited Dean, Seth, and Roman into their strategy meetings. Seth, being the brains of the group, is a lot of help. He runs through strategy with Kane and Taker, the generals, and takes the input from the future-seer and changes accordingly. Roman is a good leader, is good at building morale, and god knows they need it. Dean’s good at battle, is good at running through drills.

He insists on going into battle with the troops, most of whom he’s never seen. Bálor gives him a deep kiss before every skirmish, whispers promises of  _ I would go if I could, I hope you’re safe, please return to me _ . It warms Dean’s heart and clears his head and fills his veins with a strength he didn’t know he could have.

Part of him expects the armor to feel heavier every time he puts it on, expects the sword to feel heavier in his grip every time he picks it up. It doesn’t. It almost feels lighter, easier to move in, feels like a goddamn weight being lifted off his soul. He feels like he can breathe when he wears it. The sword feels like an extension of himself, moved as easily as his arm.

It feels right.

Battle feels like home to Dean. He’s lived so much of his life in the streets, in fights, in a ring filled with glass and barbed wire. It’s become second nature to him, a steady pulse under his skin. He’s always itching for a fight, itching to spill blood, and this is the perfect opportunity to do so.

Most of the time, everything goes perfectly fine. They head in, wreck shop, and Dean gets to return without major injury to Bálor, who beams with pride whenever Dean gives him a report. It’s a way for him to burn out his impulses, his anger, a way to use his nervous energy for something productive.

Usually.

Then there’s today.

He doesn’t know how it happens. All he knows is one minute, he’s on the battlefield hacking through angels like it’s nothing, and the next, pain is lighting up his side. He looks down, sees a spear lodged in his stomach, slipped between the plates of his armor. Blood gushes out, stains his hand, and he thinks better of pulling the spear free. He falls to his knees, and he sees who injured him.

It’s a man standing in front of him, lips curled in a cruel smirk. There’s an air of arrogance about him, an air of sick pride. His long hair is tumbling over his shoulder and blends into a thick beard hiding his smirk just barely. He’s not a small man, barely shorter than Dean and broad, broad, broad. He reaches, down, says something in a low voice, and kicks the spear.

The blade jostles deeper into Dean’s body, and he feels something almost burst, feels a sharp zip of pain across his spine, spreading out from the wound. He gasps, finds that his lungs won’t work, and he passes out.


	11. Chapter 11

He wakes up in Bálor’s room, tight bandages wrapped around his torso. They’re peeled back, and Bálor is smoothing some sort of salve across the edges of his wound. Concern is drawing his eyebrows together, and Dean can see the tip of his tongue poking between his teeth. Heat spreads along the line of his stomach, and he looks down to see his skin split open angrily.

“What happened?” His voice sounds terrible. He doesn’t sound like himself. His voice is airy and weak and there’s simultaneously too much and not enough emotion in his voice. It’s gravelly, and not even in the way of too much smoking- he sounds like he’s been punched in the throat. He feels like he hasn’t drunk anything in fucking years, his throat dry and his mouth metallic. He’s certain there’s blood on his lips.

“You got injured in battle. One of the soldiers brought you back to the castle. We had Bray look over you and stabilize your condition, and I’ve been taking care of you since.” He carefully smoothes down the salve, fingers trembling against the surface of Dean’s skin. “What were you thinking, going after their general?”

Dean lets out a dry laugh that sparks pain in his gut. “I didn’t know that was their general. He just looked like another fuckin’ angel.” He shrugs his right shoulder since his left one feels immobilized. “How long ago was that?” He asks, almost hesitant to know the answer.

Bálor presses a kiss to his stomach. “Three days. You were out for two, and you’ve been fading in and out all day.” He presses another kiss, this one more insistently, to the scar below Dean’s bellybutton. There’s a hint of teeth, and Dean’s lungs ache as he inhales sharply. Bálor carefully redresses the wound before looking at Dean with fond eyes.

He bends and presses a desperate kiss to Dean’s lips. It’s hard and rough and his talons sink into the skin of Dean’s neck as he tries to draw him closer. The angle is uncomfortable since Bálor has to lean to avoid Dean’s wound, but the demon’s tongue is sliding along his lips hot and wet so he can’t be bothered to give a shit. He groans, raises his right hand to sink into Bálor’s hair, the other barely coming high enough to grip Bálor’s hip.

Bálor pulls away and Dean whines, low in his throat. The whine dies, turns into something akin to a moan, when Bálor trails kisses down to Dean’s neck, skimming over tender skin with his sharp teeth. Nails scrape down Dean’s uninjured side, almost splitting his skin. It’s not a threat, it’s a promise, just like Bálor’s teeth over his jugular isn’t a threat but a promise.

Bálor continues to roll his tongue against the skin of Dean’s neck, breath hot and cold at the same time over saliva slick skin. He chases vicious bites with delicate kisses and smooth swipes of his tongue. His lips work against the skin, his beard threatening to rub his skin raw.

“If you keep doing that, you’re gonna have to follow through, and I don’t think I can move enough to allow that to happen.” Dean pants, curling his fingers in Bálor’s hair, nails digging across his scalp. His breath is coming in harsh pants, his lungs feeling like they’re pressing angrily against the wound.

Bálor pulls away from Dean’s neck and spreads his lips in a feral grin. He runs a hand through his hair, pushing it away from his blown wide eyes. “Who says you need to move?” His voice is deep, rough, like a growl coming from the pit of his stomach. Dean shivers.

Bálor continues his ministrations, pressing soft kisses, sweet licks, and harsh bites down Dean’s neck, across his collarbones, along the hard lines of his pecs. He avoids the gaping wound in Dean’s side, instead skirting his fingers and nails across the other side of his torso as he sucks hickeys into the dips of Dean’s hip bones.

He changes his path, presses reverent kisses to the insides of Dean’s thighs. The rasp of Bálor’s beard against the sensitive skin there is causing him to shiver, and with every kiss, his spine melts a little further into the pool of white-hot pleasure building in his gut. Bálor’s talons are splitting the skin of Dean’s thighs, and small drops of blood are rolling down to the sheets.

Dean shivers, moans,  _ whines _ when he feels Bálor’s breath ghosting across his excitement. He looks down and sees  _ red _ lips poised above the head of his cock, spread into a smile, and Bálor’s eyes locked on his. He slides his fingers through Bálor’s hair and pulls. Bálor growls low in his throat, a sound akin to purring, and his tongue falls out of his mouth.

His tongue is long, much longer than a human’s. It circles the head, slips down the shaft, wet, hot, enough to make Dean forget about the pain lighting up his side. Dean’s so focused on the sensations of Bálor’s tongue that he doesn’t register Bálor’s mouth descending until wet, hot, tight heat envelops his cock. He groans, tries to press his hips up, but he’s being held down by the brute force in Bálor’s delicate hands.

Bálor’s lips wrap  _ tight _ around Dean’s cock, hollows his cheeks as he slowly sinks down. His tongue feels like a brand, wrapped like a vice around Dean’s dick, the tip sliding down the seam of his balls, to his perineum, to his puckered entrance. It’s pressed so fucking tight against his raphe, teasing his hole as he works Dean’s dick into his mouth.

Dean whines, his hips twitching aggressively. He wants nothing more than to fuck up into Bálor’s mouth, to choke the demon, to come down his throat. He can’t though, not when Bálor’s hands are pressing his hips to the mattress, his weight settled across Dean’s legs. The weight of his head rested in Dean’s palm is comforting, as is the slide of his hair between Dean’s fingertips.

Dean is a moaning mess, head tipped back, pressed into the pillows. His fingers are digging hard into Bálor’s scalp, into his jaw, and his breathing is rough enough to hurt. Bálor has Dean as far down as he can, the head of Dean’s cock brushing the back of Bálor’s throat.

Bálor’s throat works rhythmically around Dean’s cock, his tongue occasionally rolling and tightening around him. He’s already so close to coming when he feels the hot, speared tip of Bálor’s tongue slip past his rim, sharp and narrow and just e-fucking-nough to send Dean toppling over the edge.

Dean comes, and Bálor swallows all of it, continues working his tongue against Dean’s sensitive flesh. He moans, a sound that’s mirrored by Bálor’s groan as he swallows the mouthful of cum Dean offers. He moans around Dean, shudders as he swallows, and Dean feels Bálor’s cock press against his leg.

“Let,” Dean’s voice fails as soon as he tries to talk. He quivers, a full body shiver that makes his toes curl when Bálor’s tongue slides out of him. Bálor removes Dean’s softening cock from his mouth, wiping his saliva slick mouth on the back of his hand. “Let me touch you.” The words come out as a little less than a reverent whisper, and Bálor’s eyes roll back a little.

He nods, slides himself up Dean’s legs until he’s straddling his hips. Bálor reaches into his pants and withdraws his cock, and Dean’s mouth waters. It’s like nothing he’s ever seen before.

There are small bumps and ridges along the shaft, almost like the pearling Graves had done. A large knot sits at the bottom, towards his balls, swollen and thick. A few thick veins climb along it, as well as fringe and spikes sitting close to the skin. The head was flared, and two slits run parallel along the head. A bead of thick precum glints at one of the slits.

Dean reaches out with his right hand and swipes his thumb along the head. Bálor groans, a low hiss in his throat, and a rumble almost akin to a purr raises in Bálor’s throat. The skin feels silken under Dean’s fingers, hot like a brand and smoother than anything he’d ever touched despite the texturing. The skin’s color seems to shift, red around the veins and the head, black at the knot, white along the tips of the fringe. The color never stays one shade and it feels like it’s gonna move, gonna leave, if Dean looks at it too long. The color is like quicksilver under his fingertips.

Bálor moans when Dean traces his fingers along the ridges. They’re not solid under his fingertips; they move around as he prods them. He slides one further up Bálor’s shaft out of curiosity, and Bálor’s purrs raise in pitch and he fucking  _ whines _ .

Dean slips his hand around the knot, finds that he can barely circle his fingers around it, a centimeter gap between his fingertips. He squeezes, feels the skin give a little in his calloused palm, and Bálor  _ growls _ . Dean realizes quickly that he wants to hear Bálor scream.

He slides his fist along Bálor’s shaft, twisting towards the head. Bálor’s head falls forwards, eyes lidded as he watches Dean’s ministrations. Every once and a while, a hard breath will puff from his lips and he'll groan, moan, whine, make some sort of noise that makes Dean want to get hard even though he came a few moments ago.

Eventually, Bálor shifts. His cock slips from Dean's hand, out of his reach, and he has to fight back a whine at the loss. Instead, Bálor presses his lips to Dean's and licks into his mouth, a slow sensual kiss that has Dean's hair standing in end. He reaches between them and fists his cock, long fingers wrapped tight against his skin.

Dean breaks their kiss every once and awhile. He tilts his head down, focuses on Bálor's hand stroking his cock, catalogs every movement that he makes; the twist of his wrist, the swipe of his thumb across the head, the way his fingertips dig into his knot when he reaches it. He watches Bálor, everything he does, every reaction he has.

He wants to savor this moment forever.

Bálor comes with a growl, something low and feral in his throat. It splashes mostly on Dean’s chest, though some hits his cheek, black like oil and hot like acid. He bites back a moan and tries to still his breathing. He feels like he’s run a marathon, and the pain in his side is a little more bearable.

Bálor slumps against him, breathing heavily. He rolls to the side and peels himself off the bed, legs boneless as he walks. He comes back with a warm washcloth, which he uses to clean the cum off of Dean. Dean smiles tiredly at the demon.

The last thing he remembers before going to sleep is Bálor purring against his chest.


	12. Chapter 12

As soon as he’s healed, Bálor proposes.

It simultaneously comes out of nowhere and seems like the most natural progression. It’s been seven months since Dean first came to Bálor’s realm, and he’s gotten close to the demon. He’s staying in Bálor’s room more often than not, and he spends time running through boring duties with him as well. Seth and Roman are making constant jokes, as are Bayley and Sami, and he feels like he’s not getting a break.

Demon proposals are different than human ones, as it turns out. Instead of getting down on one knee, making a grand speech, and offering a ring, Bálor folds his legs under him and presses his hands to his thighs. He takes Dean’s hand and presses a kiss to the marks across his knuckles, murmurs something in a language Dean doesn’t know. He proffers blade, made of midnight steel and a handle wrapped in rubies and onyx.

He looks at Dean with reverent eyes and asks for his hand. He asks for Dean to take the responsibility of being his queen, of helping him rule the realm, of becoming his better half. It was all eloquent language, almost like a monologue from some ancient play unknown to man.

He doesn’t realize he’s weeping until Bálor stands, digs his nails into Dean’s arms and hugs him close. Dean whispers  _ “Yes, yes, yes. You better not be fucking joking, I love you, don’t leave me.” _

Bálor seems to be crying too, happy little tears escaping from his eyes. He tucks the knife, in its sheath, into Dean’s pocket, fingers gentle, loving, almost. He smiles, mouth sharp and overpopulated by teeth, lips a little too red. He brushes the tears from Dean’s eyes, swipes his curls from his forehead, and presses a kiss to his temple.


	13. Chapter 13

After that, it’s a whirlwind.

Wedding preparations pass by Dean, and long talks about traditions and etiquette go in one ear and out the other. Bayley, Sami, and Jeff are his appointed “helpers”, who ensure he doesn’t hurt himself leading up to the wedding. Jeff also takes approximately ten thousand measurements that leave Dean feeling anxious.

The night before the wedding, Dean finds a box sitting on his bed. He’s been staying in his room since he and Bálor aren’t allowed to see each other the entire week leading up to it. The box is a blinding white with a crimson and gold bow wrapped along the top. Sitting beside it is a note, labeled  _ Dean _ in Bálor’s familiar looping scrawl.

He pads over and picks up the note. Written in green ink are scribbled words that take a moment for Dean to decipher.

_ My dearest, _

_ It is customary for the King to give his future Queen a gift. Since you are my Queen, I got you this. I know you’re not fond of other people giving you things, so I kept it simple. I’m excited for tomorrow and I’m missing you tonight. My bed feels cold without you here. _

_ Love,  _

_ Bálor _

Dean’s heart skips a beat, and he runs his fingertips over the words.  _ Love _ . He thinks he can get used to that. With a dopey grin, he gently tugs the bow open and sets the lid aside. His cheeks grow red as he looks at the contents.

There’s a small gold bracelet, with a few charms hanging from it. A small  _ B _ , an eye, and a red ribbon were some of the ones he could identify. Next was a collar, made of red satin and lined with black lace. Dean’s mouth dries as he rolls it between his fingers. There’s a small pendant hanging from it, with a symbol he doesn’t recognize engraved in the soft gold.

Then there’s the final gift. Dean turns seven shades of red when he sees it, and it takes a few minutes before he’s able to even pick them up. When he does, he shivers at the feeling of the fabric.

The final gift is a pair of black lace panties that he’s certain are going to hug every curve of his body. The back panel is nonexistent, replaced by a red silk ribbon twisted into a pentagram. The same ribbon is laced across the crotch, able to be tightened and adjusted. He tries to ignore the spike of heat in his stomach when he sees them.

Under the gifts, there’s another note, this time written in red ink.

_ The charms of the bracelet are sacred or are important to this realm, to me. I hope you enjoy it. The collar is something I think you’d like. The pendant reads Mine-I hope it’s not too forward. The undergarments….well, I would be pleased if you wore them under your dress tomorrow. _

_ Love, _

_ Bálor _

Dean huffs out a laugh and sets the note down. He fastens the bracelet around his left wrist, tracing his fingers along the B charm. He looks at the collar for a long moment and decides he’ll leave it for Bálor to put on him. The thought makes his heart jump. He looks at the underwear for a long moment before setting them aside.

He sleeps well.


	14. Chapter 14

The next morning, he wakes up to Bayley trying to rip his arm from his socket.

Ok, that's not quite true. She's trying to shake him awake, trying to pull him from the bed. He almost swings again, almost hits her again, but he's able to stop it.

“What time’s it?” He mumbles, burying his face in his pillow. The bed doesn’t smell like Bálor, doesn’t smell like spice and heat and passion. He hates it.

“It’s the equivalent of six am. C’mon, we gotta get you ready and make sure that everything fits correctly.” She says, tugging on his arm. He groans loudly, the sound lasting for close to a minute before he lets her drag him out of bed.

She leads him to a room just down the hall. There’s a circular pedestal in the center of the room towards one wall, surrounded by mirrors. Jeff is sitting at a seamstress’s table, working on a mound of black and red fabric. It’s sinuous, feels like it’s writhing, and every once and awhile, Jeff smooths a hand across the fabric.

He looks up when they enter, as does Sami, who’s sitting in one of the overstuffed chairs. The whole room feels like the over-the-top bridal shops he’s seen in reality TV. Dean’s stomach flips.

Bayley ushers him over onto the podium, ignoring the way he stumbles over the lip. “Jeff, how’s the dress coming?” She asks, tugging at the hem of Dean’s shirt. He carefully strips down to his underwear, movements hesitant.

“She ain’t happy. Usually we don’t have to work on her this close to the weddin’.” Jeff mumbles, carefully untwining part of the dress from his wrist. His voice was soft, soothing, his accent thicker than usual.

It feels like a fucking whirlwind.

Sami and Bayley help him into the dress as Jeff watches and makes little notes and alterations. The fabric is cold, almost like silk, but lighter. It slips across his skin when he moves and continues even when he stops. The dress moves by itself, little swishes and gentle curls.

The dress is mostly black, sleeveless, sits tight around his torso. It fans out and turns a deep red that reminds Dean of blood near the bottom, and this section writhes the most. It wraps around Dean’s legs and ankles, not like a vice but like an embrace.

Part of him feels like he should be worried. The dress he’s wearing is  _ living. _ The man he’s going to marry is the king of Hell, a demon thousands of eons old. He’s taking on the responsibility of an entire realm, of a plane of existence parallel to Earth, during a fucking war. All for a man he’s known for, what, eight months?

The rest of him feels fine. He’s okay. This has started to feel like home, this realm feels more comfortable than anywhere else he’s lived in 32 years. Bálor is starting to feel like home, feeling comfortable pressed to his side. There are shards of emotions, ones he can’t name despite their familiar feel, wedged between his heart and his lungs, like splinters that make it hurt to breathe.

He wants this.

The rest of the preparations go by quickly. Before he knows it, he’s wearing Bálor’s gifts, the dress writhing around him like a symbiote. His hair looks better than it has in years, full like he’s twenty and clean, like he isn’t half-homeless. He’s so nervous he can’t breathe, so  _ excited _ he can barely see.

Then he’s walking down the aisle.


	15. Chapter 15

Everything leaves Dean’s head as he walks.

He nearly trips over the tendrils of the dress that wind anticipatorily around his ankles, digging into the back of his bare heels. He isn’t wearing shoes, wasn’t offered any to wear, and he doesn’t have time to question it before his breath is leaving his body because Bálor looks stunning.

He’s standing at the altar, leaning against a black pumice column that seems to glow from within. The torches jammed firmly into the ground and held by faceless demons give off a faint orange glow that licks across Bálor’s skin and digs into every crevice available. His eyes are bright, glowing, rimmed with black that makes them seem so much deeper. His lips are the color of spilled blood against the white marble of his teeth, his tongue like a white-hot brand, like a razor-edged knife.

Dean’s throat aches.

It feels like there are ten thousand miles spread between them, and the walk gives Dean time to pick apart Bálor’s outfit. He’s wearing a white button up undone down to his belly button, revealing planes of muscle and pale skin. Layered with it are a black blazer and a pair of slacks that hug the hard line of his thighs perfectly. His shoes are simple black wingtips, the tip accented with a delicate metal wrap that comes to a hard point that looks sharp enough to cut. He has small cufflinks, shaped like eyes that are red, orange, yellow, something like that. They glow, and Dean can see them from the end of the aisle.

Finally, Dean stumbles to a stop in front of Bálor.

Bálor gives a soft smile, disarming despite the hard point of his too-many teeth. He carefully reaches out, slides the callused pad of his thumb along the edge of Dean’s stubble, slides his hand into Dean’s hair. His skin is hot like a fire pressed directly to Dean’s cheek, like ten thousand supernovas dominoing ten millimeters from his face. He can’t help but lean into it.

Gallows and Anderson are standing behind Bálor along with Matt, his ushers fanned out with six inches between them. Behind Dean stand Roman, Seth, and finally Sami. In between them is Bray, holding an aging tome.

Bray starts talking, and Dean can’t understand him. He might be speaking English, but it also sounds like a language Dean’s mind can’t comprehend. The words he says are both meaningless and hold so much wisdom that Dean’s mind blocks them out until they’re background noise, the low drone of Bray’s voice like the rasp of a knife against stone.

Bálor’s holding Dean’s hand, the sharp points of his nails digging into the meat of Dean’s palm. His eyes are getting darker, deeper, the slivers of his iris disappearing as Bray drones on. Eventually, a knife is offered, seemingly out of nowhere.

The blade is curved sharply, comes to a needlepoint that hurts to look at. The torchlight gleams across the black metal, highlighting the depths of the burgundy symbols carved into the blade, handle, and hilt. It seems to glow, like most important things in this realm do, and it fits in Dean’s palm like it was made to be there.

Bálor offers the delicate skin of his inner arm, his fingers curling inwards to his upturned palm. Dean slides his left hand underneath, feeling the smooth, thin skin. He can practically feel Bálor’s pulse as his fingers wrap to conform to his hand.

Dean hasn’t been listening, but somehow he knows what to do. His right-hand moves forwards, almost like it’s being controlled by something else. He presses the very tip of the blade to the start of Bálor’s lifeline before dragging down sharply, following the curve of the ridge in his palm. Black blood bubbles from the cut and slides down the side of Bálor’s wrist, and it burns when it touches Dean’s skin.

Dean hands Bálor the knife after that, and Bálor repeats the action on Dean’s lifeline. Feeling his skin split doesn’t hurt, not like it should. It feels weird, and it makes his stomach tighten with a feeling he knows intimately.

As soon as his hand is split open, Bálor grabs it, pressing their open wounds together. It feels like a shock of lightning goes through him, like he’s been plugged into an outlet. He sees a full body shiver go through Bálor, feels one go through himself, and then everything’s fading away as Bálor kisses him.

They’ve kissed before, so many times Dean has Bálor’s taste memorized. Still, it feels different this time. Everything else fades away; the heat of the torches, the hand Seth’s tangled in Dean’s dress, the low drone of Bray’s voice. It all melts until the only thing Dean can even think of focusing on is the almost painful heat of Bálor’s lips on his, the hand gripping his hip, the hand wet with blood-  _ their  _ blood- cupping his jaw. Bálor’s teeth dig into Dean’s lower lip and he can’t even be bothered to care that his skin is going to be split with needlepoint holes.

Eventually, Bálor pulls away, and everything comes crashing in. He’s suddenly aware of the dress wrapping itself around Bálor, the blood drying in his stubble, the adrenaline spiking in his veins.

Bálor grins, something low and feral, and Dean tries to ignore the red of his blood on Bálor’s teeth. “Hello, my Queen.” He purrs, bowing so low his head rests at Dean’s waist.

Dean drags him up and kisses him. 


	16. Chapter 16

Dean’s back slams into the door to Bálor’s room, startling a gasp out of him. The noise is immediately swallowed by Bálor, whose lips were pressed to his like a brand. The demon’s hands were just as hot, if not hotter than his lips, one tangled in his hair as the other gropes his ass. The grip forces Dean’s hips forwards, pressing them together, pelvis to pelvis.

Dean whines, digs his teeth into Bálor’s plump lower lip. The older man makes a noise low in his throat, his nails digging into Dean’s skin through his dress. The dress curls even tighter around Bálor’s ankles at that, and Dean’s suddenly reminded that he and Bálor are both wearing entirely too much clothing.

He claws uselessly at his dress, trying to free it from his chest. There isn’t a zipper, or buttons, or any other fastenings. He’s left to sit there and try to strip, the dress fighting against him and wrapping tighter, tighter,  _ tighter _ , until Dean can barely breathe.

Bálor’s hands smooth down his sides, a gentle shush falling from his lips. Dean stops struggling and leans against the door, watching as Bálor slips his hands down to Dean’s hips. He says something in a language Dean doesn’t know, voice quiet and gentle and soothing. The dress calms down and slowly peels away from Dean’s body, falling to the ground and curling into a pile in the corner. It leaves Dean standing there in nothing but his underwear, which he realizes with a shock are the panties Bálor had gifted him.

Bálor skims his hands down the planes of Dean’s chest, touch light and reverent. He drags his knuckles across Dean’s collarbones, swipes his thumbs against Dean’s nipples, digs the edges of his nails into Dean’s abs. Finally, he settles his hands against Dean’s hips, thumbs settled in the canyons of Dean’s sex lines.

“Do you like the gift?” He asks, his voice barely a murmur against Dean's neck. He places a few scalding kisses on Dean's neck before sliding his tongue along Dean's pulse point, startling a noise from his throat. The collar, which is fastened around his throat, is blocking Bálor’s path up behind his ear. Bálor slides his fingers against the edge of the collar, fiddles with the lace. The pendant hangs against the hollow of Dean’s throat, and Bálor presses a sharp kiss to it, pressing the soft metal deep into Dean’s throat.

Dean whines, high in his throat, and rolls his hips forwards. His cock is so hard it hurts, and he feels like he’s going to tear a seam in the panties if he doesn’t get touched soon. The smooth silk of Bálor’s trousers presses against his bare skin, as does the soft fabric of his button up, which is untucked and open across his chest.

“Fuck, shit,” He pants, riding the thigh Bálor has pressed between his legs, “Baby, baby, please fuckin’ touch me, I’m about to jizz my fuckin’ panties.” As he practically moans the word, arousal zips through him, hot and sharp, like razor blades on his nerves.

Bálor grins, teeth sharp, glinting in the light, his tongue red and long and lolling out of his mouth. He lets it slip down to circle Dean’s nipple, causing him to arch away from the door. He lets out a keen noise and lets his head fall onto Bálor’s shoulder, fingers digging into his hips.

“Do you think I could make you come without touching you?” Bálor growls, pressing his lips to Dean’s ear. The bulge of his cock in his pants presses roughly against Dean’s dick, and he  _ moans _ , loud and unabashedly. “Does that sound good to you, my Queen?” He whispers, biting hard at the junction of Dean’s shoulder and neck.

The skin breaks under the demon’s needlepoint teeth, and Dean knows he’s irreparably marked, linked.

“Fuck, man, that sounds great but I swear to god if you don’t get a hand on me soon I’m going to fucking kick your dick,” Dean growls, yanking on Bálor’s hair. The demon grins, feral, predatory, and draws a claw down Dean’s chest, splitting his skin just enough to let a drop of blood leak from the cut.

“Can I ask you a question, my love?” Bálor snarls, pulling away from Dean. As Dean sags against the door and whines, he watches as Bálor rises to his full height, which feels much taller than he usually is.

Dean nods, swallowing the lump in his throat. Something about Bálor’s gaze feels hotter, heavier, dangerous. He shivers with excitement as his cock twitches in his panties.

“Do you trust me, darling?” The demon’s voice is so much lower than before, darker, like sharp whiskey over sun hot gravel. His eyes are dark, almost fully black, the color leeching down his cheeks. Tendrils, faint in the light, seem to extend from his fingers, half palpable.

Dean shivers, and nods.

Bálor lets out a laugh that feels like a dull knife scraping across Dean’s bones. His form seems to grow, taller and broader, seems to melt into the shadows licking at the edges of the room. Dark, smoky tendrils seep from the corners, wrapping around Dean’s ankles and wrists, holding him tightly in place.

A form steps out of the growing darkness filling the room. It’s a lumbering form, probably upwards of eight feet tall, all wide, hunched shoulders and pronounced muscles. Large, glowing orange eyes peer at Dean through thick lashes, all large, sharp teeth and a red tongue spilling from a wide, lolling mouth.

“Do you fear me like this, mo cháilím?” The figure growls, one large, clawed finger coming to tip Dean’s chin up. Its teeth look so fucking large that Dean’s knees are weak, and the smoky tendrils holding Dean tight enough to bruise.

Dean thinks for a moment. This huge demon has him pinned against a door, bound and unable to move, to leave. It should terrify him, should activate every fighting instinct in him, but it doesn’t.

“You don’t scare me.”

His voice is soft, defiant. It’s gravelly, more so than usual, and darkened by lust. His pulsing erection hasn’t diminished, cock still straining against the lace of his panties.

The creature-  _ Bálor _ \- leans down to Dean and grins. Its teeth are covered in saliva and drool and it’s all too easy to imagine them covered in blood. The air smells like smoke and brimstones and apricots, strangely. It makes it hard to breathe. “Oh, my dear.” It growls softly.

“I should scare you.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm tonyknees on Tumblr! Come bug me!


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